Soul Food
by owlcroft
Summary: It's another round of that same old Christmas cheer.


Disclaimer: These characters are not my mine but were created by others; blessings on them for it!

A/N: Not just an answer to the Christmas story challenge, but also a follow-on to the "Same Old Song" epilogue.

SOUL FOOD

by

Owlcroft

It was a seedy part of Los Angeles; empty wine bottles in paper bags littered the sidewalks, along with cigarette stubs, fragments of newspaper, and other big city detritus. Definitely not the place Mark would want to park the Coyote for any length of time.

"This is the two hundred block," he said, peering through the truck windshield at the street sign on the corner. "It should be on the left up ahead, right in the middle."

The judge grunted. "You mean where that fluorescent cross is, with the big word 'shelter' underneath it? Gee, McCormick, I'm sure glad I got a navigator along or I'd'a never have found it." He pulled the truck over to the nearly-empty curb and put it in park. "I dunno why I let you talk me into this."

Mark grinned at him, unseen in the darkness of the December night. "You're just pretending to be cranky. It was _you _who introduced me to Sam Harkness and told me about the free Christmas meal, you know. This –" he waved a hand at the run-down neighborhood, "is all _your _fault."

"Yeah, well, it's the last time I introduce you to anybody at one those State Bar functions. Thought I'd be doing you a favor," grumbled the judge, turning off the headlights and unbuckling his seat belt. "You can _bet _I'm not gonna try to help you out again."

"Next year, it'll be _me _doing the introducing, Judge." Mark exited the truck and started across the sidewalk toward the door to the Los Angeles County Men's Shelter. "_I'll _be the member of the bar in good standing, and you'll be the one meeting all _my _contacts."

Hardcastle joined him at the door. "Uh-huh. Well, let's get this meal serving thing done and get home. I got a nice big eggnog waiting for me back there with a new F. Howard Payne."

McCormick chuckled again. "Come on. It'll be fun. Besides, it's Christmas, Judge. Where's that old ho-ho-ho?"

ooooo

The 'old ho-ho-ho' was still conspicuously absent even after the shelter manager had met them, thanked them profusely, and explained they'd be handling the stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy posts.

"Oh, yeah, this brings back memories." Mark picked up the scoop used for the potatoes and shook his head. "Hey, maybe we oughtta get one of these for home. You think your mashed potatoes would taste better if they looked like ice cream?"

Hardcastle bristled. "There's nothing wrong with my mashed potatoes! You just tend to those spuds and don't get all sloppy with the gravy. I'll do the stuffing," he wielded the serving spoon, "we'll do our good deed for the season and then we can go home."

"You're no fun anymore," whined McCormick. He shot an impish look at the older man as he ladled another scoop of potatoes onto a waiting man's plate, then poured gravy over the mound. "You're not usually this crabby at Christmas. C'mon, Judge, where's your Christmas spirit?"

"It's home, in the brandy bottle." Hardcastle dumped a large portion of stuffing onto the bewildered man's plate.

"Ah, admit it, you're having a good time helping out. Seeing all the guys here is pretty interesting, and it's a good cause." Mark served up more potatoes and gravy.

"Interesting is one word for it." The judge shrugged. "Okay, okay, it's a good thing to help out. But, well ... I kinda woke up achy. Maybe a little tired from all the running around this time of year. And this isn't everybody's idea of a fun time, anyway." He gestured with the stuffing spoon.

McCormick cocked an eyebrow at him. "Wait a minute, is that what this is all about? You're feeling old again? Give me break, Hardcase." He watched the judge quietly for a minute, then said, "Okay, I guess I shoulda asked you before volunteering us."

"Could be home next to my own fireplace." More stuffing hit a plate.

"It was 78 outside this afternoon," McCormick responded dryly.

"Reading a good book, having some eggnog. Maybe a little brandy in it," added Hardcastle, ignoring his starch partner.

"Brandy? Now that's a good idea. Where is it?" asked a vaguely familiar voice.

Hardcastle looked up at the elderly man waiting patiently for his stuffing. "Henry! What are you doing here?"

"Not eating," replied Henry Willard in a waspish tone.

Mark looked at the grey-mustached man in surprise. "Henry? I thought you were – "

"Hey, can we get this line moving?" complained an anonymous voice from the crowd forming behind the retired bank robber.

Willard turned slightly and bellowed, "You got someplace special to go after this?"

As the majority of the crowd chuckled and shifted, McCormick waved Henry over to the peas and cranberry jelly station. "Henry, wait for us when you're done, okay? We need to talk to you."

"Sure thing. Hey, Hardcase, never thought I'd see _you _here." With that, he shuffled over to cast a disparaging glance at the cranberry jelly. "Hey, buddy, what's in that stuff, anyway?" he demanded of the server.

ooooo

"Henry," the judge slid into the chair next to him, "what happened to your money? Where's the twenty-five grand?"

Willard, picking his teeth in a satisfied manner, shrugged carelessly. "It's in the bank. You know the kid here helped me set up an account, right?" He nodded at the younger man settling in with a mug of coffee next to the judge. "I got to talking with the manager there and a lot of it's in a CD now. Making a real nice chunk of change on the interest." He smiled sardonically. "If you can't beat 'em, you know?"

"But then, why are you _here_, standing in line for a Christmas dinner?" McCormick shook his head. "If you don't need the free meal, I mean."

Henry grimaced. "Hell, I can't cook. I can do a can of soup and a bologna sandwich, but that's about it."

Both his listeners nodded in understanding, and he continued. "So I started looking around. Figured I might find a place with some hot grub for a coupla bucks, and I saw an ad in that free newspaper – you know the one – about a hot lunch for seniors once a week, for just a buck donation." He leaned back in the plastic chair and chuckled. "Meatloaf, just like back in the joint! You know, with the little chewy bits in it? But it was a hot meal and there were some other guys there that I got to talking to and they told me about all the other places they go for some eats. Well, I checked 'em out, and they're pretty decent. Nobody bugs you to go to prayer meetings or anything like that. It's just a buncha guys like me. Only maybe not so well-off, ya know?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "So you go to all these places for the food? Or the company? Or just 'cause you're bored?"

Henry wrinkled his nose and scrubbed at his mustache. "Maybe all of that. But mostly the company. We got a checkers club set up over at the Lighthouse Mission now. Twice a week, we fight it out over the ol' checkerboard and then sit around and have coffee and cookies. Beats the hell outta just sitting home and watching TV. It's all game shows and sitcoms these days. None of those great cop shows there used to be. We'd sit around the common room every Saturday and watch 'Adam-12'. We _loved _that show. We'd yell at the cops and swear at 'em and boo every time they caught the bad guys." Henry smiled in happy reminiscence. "Great times."

Mark wiped a hand across his face to hide a smile, then asked, "So you're doing okay? I mean, you're not lonely or running short of dough?" He pushed the coffee mug in front of him to the left, then pushed it back to its original position. "We shoulda kept tabs on you, I guess, huh?"

"Hah!" Willard barked. "You gotta be kidding me! I mean, no offense, guys, but I'd rather hang around with folks my own age, you know?" Willard smiled in apology. "You guys are always chasing after bad guys or something. Me, I've got my checker buddies and even a mystery book club going over at the Salvation Army building. Got a nice little library of mystery novels – hey, you ever hear of F. Howard Payne? Not bad stuff, but you always know whodunnit way before the end of the book. Lex Portly, there's another good one." Henry leaned back in his chair and regarded the two benevolently. "Naw, I got plenty of pals and plenty of social life. Don't you worry about me."

ooooo

"So, you gonna settle in with ol' F. Howard Payne?" McCormick shot a glance sideways at the judge, who ruffled slightly and pressed just a bit harder on the accelerator.

"Nah," he shook his head. "I was thinking maybe some eggnog and that Grinch movie with Boris Karloff on TV. Whaddaya say?"

"Sounds good to me," Mark grinned in response. "Or, maybe some of that glogg mix you bought. Mulled wine, right? And those Christmas cookies Mrs. Johnstone brought over?"

Hardcastle grinned back. "Too bad we don't have any fruitcake."

McCormick chuckled. "You didn't see the mail today. There's a shoebox there from the Aunts."

The judge snorted, then, after a short pause, sighed. "Well, I guess there's a lesson to be learned from all this."

"To keep the Christmas spirit all year 'round?" asked Mark in a dramatic, hollow voice. "Or," back in his normal tone, "when you take responsibility for somebody, you can't just let it drop? You gotta keep up with it. Although Henry seems to be doing okay on his own."

"Yeah, he does." Hardcastle took one hand from the steering wheel to flip the left turn signal. "But that's not what I was talking about. Nah, I meant next time I start getting all cranky and plumb outta ho-ho-ho, maybe you could just remind me that there are some people who think playing checkers is a pretty hot time."

Mark held up a hand and cocked his head. "Wait a minute. I thought . . . Yep, there it was. I distinctly heard a 'ho'."

"Ho," replied the judge.

"Ho," said McCormick.

_finis_


End file.
